Unsteady Progress

I pad around in a pair of slippers that are too wide and a trifle too long for my feet. Slippers, indeed. Sliding around in my wooly footwear, I have only a loose grip on the earth. To move about the kitchen is disaster. My wayward feet upend the cats' food bowls, sending an avalanche of kibble dancing across the tile.

Slippers + misplaced glasses = a watercolor world, by an artist not well schooled in perspective. Why is my manuscript / my will / my good intention not where I thought? I could use some focus. I could use some traction. The spirit is willing, but the body has (clay) feet.